


Lena Luthor Does Drunk History

by IShipItAllAndThenSome



Category: Drunk History, Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Drunk Lena Luthor, F/F, Gen, Lena Luthor Is A Nerd, Lena Luthor is a Gay Mess, Memes, Millennial Lena Luthor, So there!, Thirsty Lena Luthor, UST, and I just want her to be happy, and get to drink and be silly, she's just a goofy twenty something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 22:32:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13668672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IShipItAllAndThenSome/pseuds/IShipItAllAndThenSome
Summary: Lena Luthor is on Drunk History to talk about Joan of Arc, her personal hero, but she just… keeps… getting… distracted…Lena Luthor, with her for fun PhD in Global History, has had:-Half a bottle of 2003 Gevrey Chambertin 1er Cru Les Champeaux-Three Sidecars-Four fingers of whiskey-and one glass of Bailey’s on iceAnd if that’s not drunk enough to talk about Joan of Arc, then what the hell is?





	Lena Luthor Does Drunk History

“So, I wanna talk to you about my personal hero.” Lena, sinking into a vaguely uncomfortable-looking modernist armchair, scrambled back upright, somehow not spilling her Bailey’s. “My _personal_ hero.” 

She took a sip, hummed, and took another sip. And another. And clearly had forgotten what she was doing.

“Mm! Oh, right. Right. The Maid of Or-El-eans.” Lena giggled, and draped her legs over the arm of the chair. _“Jeanne d’Arc, fils de putes!”_

Subtitles rolled: Joan of Arc, sons of bitches!

“So, Joanie-babes is fucking—right, so she was born in 1412 in Domrémy, and her dad, Jacques, was a farmer and a government shill, tax collector, and her mum, Isabelle, was this, like, de _vout_ Catholic. Like, wine at noon—no, that’s just the French, like, always, but whatever—wine at nine a.m.” She snorted into her glass, slapping the seat. “Wine at nine? Amazing.

“So, Isabelle’s last name, Romée, is because she went on a pilgrimage to Rome. Roamed to Rome. Like. Probably. So she taught her daughters to spin and pray and shit, but never to read. Because reading is for witches.”

Lena downed the last of her Bailey’s, nearly dumping ice on her own face. Thankfully, that was avoided, but she did let out a shriek and a curse and jerk upright so hard she kneed herself in the face.

…

Now in her kitchen, huge and immaculate, Lena poured the remaining bottle of Burgundy into a big glass jar.

“Here’s the thing,” she said, wine glugging out. “The king, right, Charles the Sixth, was bonkers. Ripe bananas. So there were these two factions who wanted custody so they could be king when he was…” She fluttered a hand at her temple, avoiding the universal gesture. “You know. He had visions, and there were these two guys, the leaders of the factions: Duke John the Fearless of Burgundy—”

She presented the bottle to the camera so the corresponding label could be clearly seen, then threw it with surprising skill towards her recycling bin. It bounced in, just barely, and she hollered, “Kobe!” 

Then it broke, and she muttered, “Shit.”

Back at the carafe, she uncorked the brandy, which was about three Sidecars’ shy of full, and continued with the lecture. “And the other fella, in charge of the other faction, was Louis of Orléans, Count of Armagnac, uncle of the king. Like so.”

The brandy’s label clearly read, in obnoxiously elaborate calligraphy, _Armagnac._

“And they were fighting like fucking idiots over who got to take advantage of this schizophrenic guy, and—wait.”

Lena climbed up onto the counter and grabbed a bottle of wine off the top of the fridge. “’s not Burgundy, but I’m not diggin’ in there with broken glass.”

“So Louie and Johnny-boy are fuckin’… _squabbling._ And John’s like—” Lena indicated the wine bottle, woggling it around and putting on an effective French accent—“‘you are, _comment dit-on_ , fucking the queen of Bavaria,’ her name’s Isabeau, she was fucking _hot,_ right, and married to Charlie-boy, so that was a big no-no, ‘you are fucking Isabeau the Snack!’ And Louis—” She grabbed the brandy and waved it around, putting on a different accent, “is all ‘oh, you ‘ave keednapped ze cheeldren! _Encule-toi, salaud!_ ’”

The subtitles read: _Fuck you, bastard!_

“Very dramatic.”

…

Lena was chopping pears, persimmons, and tiny yellow and blue plums with surprising dexterity for someone so utterly blasted. “These’re all demo-demog-demogorgon? Demagogue, demigod, demographically accurate! Ha!” She slapped the flat of the knife on the cutting board and grinned, tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth between her teeth. “ _Les poires, les kakis, les Mirabelles de Lorraine—qui, elles sont en fait turques,_ but what the fuck ever—and _les quetsches._ Should I put in quince? _J'ai des coings, devrais-je mettre des coings?”_

She dumped her fruit into what was quickly becoming sangria and opened the fridge. 

“Okay, so, _c'est seulement de la confiture de coings_ , but—ooh, toast!”

…

With her pitcher of sangria and her quince jam on toast, Lena sat on the kitchen floor, back against the cupboards. “So, Louie is old as _fuck,_ okay, like absolutely _ancient._ And he just… he fuckin’ dies, he McFucking _dies,_ because he’s too stupid to see Johnny assassinating him coming. Johnny’s like, ‘buddy. Bro. Dude. We should—we should reconcile, right? Fighting’s… dumb as shit.’ And Louie, being also dumb as shit, but also fucking old as shit, is like, ‘Oh, sure, my guy, let’s be fuckin’ pals.’ And then he goes out for a ride, and Johnny sics a bunch of bandits on him, and he gets stabbed, like, so many times.”

Lena gestured with her toast, then took a big bite, shimmying her shoulders as she chewed thoroughly before continuing.

“And his dumbass son, also called Charlie, steps the fuck up, like—‘scuse me,” she said, grabbing the brandy again, “this is Charlie now—he steps up all ‘my name is Charles d’Orléans, you killed my father, prepare to die,’ and he just… they fight, dude, it’s like a Denny’s parking lot.”

Her eyes widened. “We should _go_ to Denny’s. We should get Supergirl some pancakes!”

…

They clearly haven’t gotten Supergirl any pancakes. Lena was now lying on the kitchen floor. Her toast was gone; her sangria was not.

“Henry the Fifth is a fucking asshole. Like. We all know that, right? We’re all grownups? He sucks so much ass, and not, like, in the fun, consensual, don’t-forget-the-dental-dams-because-you-can-get-a-parasite way. Fuckin’… goes to war to distract attention from his own domestic fuckups.

“So, France is in turmoil because ‘my name is Charlie-boy, Duke of Whatever, you killed m’dad, get reck’t,’ etcetera, etcetera, and Henry takes advantage, because he’s a fucking—he is a fucking asshole—and Queen Isabeau—‘member her? She was really hot?—she signs the throne over to Henry because Charlie and Johnny are fighting, wrecking shit, burning—fucking burning barns or whatever, fucking sheep, and then everyone’s like, ‘ohoho, zo you _deed_ fuck ze keeng’s oncle, you dirty leetle—’ and she never did, she loved her husband, ’s not her fault men are assholes and she was gorgeous.”

Lena rolled onto her side, eyes shiny. “She was supposedly really fucking hot, though. And she and her husband really did love each other loads and loads. Wasn’t her fault, people being shitty.

“But Henry the Fist—ha!—Fifth, he takes over France in 1420. And five years later, enter—” She sat upright, and punched the air. “—my fuckin’ main bitch, Joan of fucking Arc!”

After a moment, her eyes widened. “Sorry, Joan! You deserved better!”

…

“Joan,” said Lena, cheek smushed into the cool stone tile of her kitchen floor, “was thirteen when she had her first visions in her dad’s garden. Her little town was still French loyal, even though those fuck-os, Johnny and Charlie, burned part of it down, and they hated the British, but, like, to be fair…

“Anyways, so she’s in the garden, picking, I don’t know, eggplant? Courgette! She’s picking courgettes, plums, whatever, ‘I’m fucking thirteen, life is great, totally normal, _what the fuck!’_ And there, standing in the garden, are three _total_ babes. Like, holy smokeshows—Saint Michael, Saint Catherine, and Saint Margaret, played by… like, gimme a second. I need to cast this accurately, because he was Jewish.”

After a moment of staring at her phone, Lena wrinkled her nose. “Buzzfeed, _he’s_ supposed to be hot? Fuck off.”

Another moment, and then: 

“Okay, so Saint Michael is Jeff Goldblum, but like, in his Ragnarok costume, the one where he’s boning down with magical twinks. Or as Doctor Ian Malcom, all ‘draw me like one of your St. Sebastians.’” Sagely, Lena nodded, and rolled back onto her stomach, resting her chin on her hands. “And then the lady saints, delicious, are standing there looking like…”

She shot the camera a look, all knowing smile and arched eyebrow, bottom lip caught between her teeth, thumb dragging just below it. ‘

“And Joanie, my girl Joanie, is like… _‘sacre merde, je suis_ bi as fuck.’ And the saints are all like, ‘We know, honey, look at us, we’re stunning.’ And she’s like, ‘okay, so, what do you want me to do? And, Catherine, ma’am, do I—like, can I get a dragon? Is that cool? Because I know they’re, like, your whole thing, but dragons are tight as fuck.’ They _totally_ are. Did you know, there’s this, um, Kryptonian game? ’s like soccer, but with _motherfucking dragons!_ Tight. As. Fuck.”

Lena slapped the floor for emphasis, and grinned widely. “Oh, my god! So, Catherine is historically a brunette, but for the sake of dragons, she is heretofore played by Supergirl. And Margaret is… I know a Maggie, so I could say her, but her wife would shoot me in my face, so she’s gonna be Reign instead.

“And Supergirl-As-Catherine is all, ‘baby, I would love to give you a ride on my dragon sometime, but first, you gotta throw the English on their asses. Be a hero.’ And Jeff Goldblum and Reign are like, ‘Yes, absolutely, murder the shit out of them,’ and Supergirl is like, ‘no, don’t kill them, just be a symbol of hope that inspires _other_ people to kill them,’ and Joan is like, ‘I’m gonna ride into battle like a fucking badass, save all of France, and then I want Supergirl to raw me.’”

“Um.” Lena blinked. “Um. Anyways, the saints are all like, ‘bye bye bye,’ and then they peace out, and Joan cries because they’re so pretty. Just… so, so pretty.”

…

“Anyways, so Joanie is riding high on gay energy. She’s glowing, she’s touched by divine purpose, Carrie Fisher is telling her how to overthrow the king and Supergirl’s gonna—” Lena cut herself off, chugging sangria with one finger extended in the universal gesture for ‘one moment, please.’ She dropped it, poured herself another glass, and downed that in one go, too. “And she’s like, ‘Mum, Dad, I need to go to Vaucouleurs ComicCon, I have to talk to the head of the army, he’s signing books and shit, and I’m gonna make him read my self-insert graphic novel about boning Supergirl and destroying the British’ and her dad is like, ‘What the fuck?’ but her mum, who’s hella Catholic, is like, ‘Honestly, let her go, she’s clearly on a holy mission.’ And they fight on that for three years until finally Joanie, my heart and soul, is like, ‘fuck you, you’re old, you don’t get me,’ and sneaks off with, like, her cousin or something, who drives her to Vaucouleurs, and she meets the head of the army, and she’s like, ‘hey, my guy, you should give me my own command so I can fucking wreck Henry the Fifth’s shit.’

“And the head of the army, Robert de Baudricourt, he’s like, ‘you’re a little bit young to commit regicide,’ and she’s like, ‘the fuck I am, I have the power of God and bisexuality on my side,’ and he’s like ‘ha! gay!’ but not in the nice way where you’re both gay, so she’s all, ‘fuck you, old man, I’ll do it anyway,’ and she comes back a year later to talk to his men.

“And she chats up these two guys, Jean de Metz and Bertrand de Poulegny, this in 1429, and she’s like, ‘hey,’ and they’re like ‘hey’ back, and she’s like, ‘your boss is a tit and I’m gonna trounce the king, because I’m bi and I like fighting and God told me to,’ and they’re like…” Lena widened her eyes and waved her hands. “‘Joan, you absolute fucking legend, we’re in, we’ll talk to our boss, because he’s a tit, but we don’t say it to his face, so he thinks we love him, he’ll listen to us.’ And their boss listens, he’s like, ‘hell yeah, let’s murder the king, because you’re my boys and you’re down,’ and they’re like… ‘yeah, we’re such good friends, totally, so here’s Joan, she’s in charge.’ 

“And Bobert is like, ‘aw fuck’ and Joan’s like, ‘hell, yeah, bitch, I’m back! And God said that some… s’military bullshit is gonna happen at the Battle of Rouvray.’ and Bobert is like, ‘fuck off,’ but then a couple days later, some messengers arrive all, ‘dude, fuck, some military bullshit happened at the Battle of Rouvray.’ And he just, real slow, looks over at Joan like ‘ _what the fuck’_ and she gets up in his face and says, real quiet, ‘God and bisexuality on my side, motherfucker, so listen up and do what I say.’”

…

“So, like, Joan meets Charles the Mad, a.k.a. Charles the Beloved, right away. He’s the one with the hot mom everyone treats like shit. Anyway, she meets him, and he’s like, ‘you talk to god?’ and she’s like ‘shit, yeah, I do, and she says I’m supposed to wreck England’s shit and put you back in power,’ and he’s like, ‘babe, that’s a lot of work, but I dig your vibes and I dig wrecking England’s shit, so go forth and be a badass.’ And Joan is like, ‘thanks, buddy, but I’m already on that, watch me suplex this asshole Bob.’ And it’s _great._ And actual King of France Charles is like, ‘that was incredible.’ And his mother in law is like, ‘I agree, one hundred percent. But, like, consider this, shepherd girl: asshole Bob is not the only asshole out there.’

“And Joan’s like, ‘I’m listening.’

“And mother in law, Yolande of Aragon, is like, ‘Maybe dress up in boy’s clothes so no one tries to fuck with you,’ and Joan, who would absolutely… Okay, wait, hold on.”

Lena peeled herself off the kitchen floor and looked for her phone. “Ha! Okay, here we go, look at this.”

She presented the screen to the camera, proudly displaying a picture of a blonde woman in a button up, khakis, and a leather belt. 

“That’s my friend Kara. Hella butch, hella fine, always down to fight. Love her so much.” Lenaq sniffled, beaming. “So, this is Joan, right? Joan is my friend Kara. And Kara’s like, ‘an opportunity to dress butch as fuck and make people 3000% gayer? Sign me the _fuck_ up!’

“So she rides around, kicking ass, taking names, making people question their sexuality, all with royal permission. And she makes the war, which was a disaster for the French, into a _religious_ battle, not a fight over land or a dick-measuring contest. Rides into fights on her white horse, banner flying, God’s gay lady face grinning down at her from the sky like ‘hell yeah, that’s my baby, all grown up and off to kill people,’ and she kills it on the battlefield. It’s like Ratatouille.”

Lena sat up.

“Did you see Ratatouille? So, in this scenario, Joan is Linguine, and God is Remy, and God and Joan are drift compatible, ripping the shit out of British kaiju, and that’s Pacific Rim, but whatever.” Her eyes widened. “Do you think they got the idea for Pacific Rim from Ratatouille?” Somehow, impossibly, they widened further. “I am _so_ hungry. I’m gonna make confit biyaldi.”

…

“Never mind.” Lena pouted, slamming her fridge shut. “Tomatoes didn’t come to France for another three hundred years, ’s anachronistic. _Fuck._

“Anyways, so Joan is killing it on the battlefield, but everyone is an asshole to her off of it, because she’s a girl, and all their wives want to fuck her or whatever. So they try and keep her out of strategy missions, but she finds out anyways, shows up fifteen minutes late with Starbucks like, ‘hey, sorry I’m late, I was helping your wife find her panties after I tore them off with my teeth,’ and Metz and Poulegny slap her five, like, ‘you absolute legend!’ And all the men are like, ‘fuck,’ and she’s like ‘only your wives and the British,’ and Metz and Poulegny are like ‘ohhhh!’ ’s great.”

…

“So, the French army does a total 180 once Joanie’s up in it. She’s out there, fuckin’ badass babe in real armor, waving a banner, inciting rebellion. The British are out there getting their asses handed to them on toast instead of beans, and they see this butch angel leading the French against them, and they’re like… ‘She’s the Devil. Has to be.’ Because they were stupid and didn’t legalize same-sex marriage for another five hundred and eighty three years, and nobody appreciates butch women enough. Like, there was literal propaganda about how she was the Devil.”

Lena downed the last of her sangria, empty pitcher sitting in her lap like a sleeping cat, and fished a piece of pear out of the bottom of the glass. She popped it into her mouth and scowled as she chewed, muttering, _“Putain de trous du cul.”_

Subtitles flashed: _fucking assholes_.

“So, Joan’s got the king and her bros on her side, and basically no one else, so she brings the King to battle so she can be like, ‘hey! fuck-os! The King says I got this under control, so listen up or eat ass!’ and the King is like ‘she’s totally right, her way or the dry way,’ and she’s like, ‘isn’t it highway?’ and he’s like ‘not for them,’ which, _savage._  

“And the King agreeing with Joan makes Duke John the Second of Alençon go, ‘shit, she _does_ have this in the bag,’ and ask for her advice. And she’s like, ‘’bout time, bitch-ass,’ and Alençon is like ‘okay, I deserve that,’ and a bunch of other rich old French dudes, because that was all the milililililililitary officers back then, are all, ‘yeah, we all do, we’re fucking dicks and you were right all along,’ and they start listening to her.

“Which, it would be nice if they’d just been like, ‘hey, she’s smart, she’s got good ideas, we should listen to her,’ from the get-go without another rich old French dude telling them to, but, like… _c’est la vie.”_

Subtitles flash: _that’s how it is on this bitch of an Earth sometimes._

“And she’s like, ‘now that you’re gonna listen when I tell you,’ they’re at the Jargeau, people dying left and right, debris everywhere, ‘now that you’re gonna listen to me, Alençon, there’s a fucking cannonball with your name on it, so _duck,’_ and he _does,_ and a cannonball whizzes past where his head _just McFucking was._ And Joan’s like, ‘you’re welcome,’ and he’s like, ‘oh, my god, thank you so much!’ 

“And then some debris beans her in the head and she doesn’t even stumble, and she’s like, _‘suce ma bite, je suis immortel!’_ and then reclaims, like, forty five kilometers, almost a hundred miles, of land from the British in six days.”

Subtitles roll: _suck my dick, I’m immortal._

“So, she arrived in Loire on the 12th of June. The British fuck off in fear on the 18th, meet up with unexpected back up in the form of this John Fastolf fucker, who doesn’t help _at all_. The French wipe out their archers, block off their escape routes, fucking _destroy_ them, with next to no casualties, all because of a teenage girl with, like, magic and shit.” Lena kissed her fingertips, then pointed them towards the sky. “For my girl!”

…

“So it takes eleven days of the army actually following Joan’s orders to make the British surrender. First week, she gets them on the retreat; second, she hunts them down into Patay, into Gien, and they’ve got them surrendering in Auxerre on the third of July. But then, it takes them thirteen days to march there, and they’re running out of food. Which would have sucked, but then there’s this Friar, Brother Richard, totally _not_ a dick, who had visions that told him to plant a shit-ton of beans, and he got the whole town in on it. And Joan’s like, ‘thanks, God,’ and God’s like, ‘no sweat, sugarplum, I got your back so long as I’m not on vacation,’ and Joan’s like, ‘what?’ and God’s like, ‘nothing, go eat your beans,’ and Joan’s like, ‘sure,’ because she’s hungry, dude.” Lena picked out the last piece of persimmon. “Let her live her life.”

…

“So, sixteenth of July, 1429, they coronate Joan’s buddy Charles in Reims, and Charles is like, ‘let’s negotiate peace with this asshole, Philip of Burgundy, whose dad tried to steal my throne before, because we already basically won,’ and Joan is like, ‘okay, but basically isn’t actually, so we should _actually_ kick their asses out before we party up,’ and Charles is like, ‘no, I know what I’m doing, I got this, my chamberlain Georges de la Trémoille says it’s cool,’ and she’s like…” 

Lena pulled a face.

“And it goes south. Philip used the negotiations as a trap, the British are waiting, Joan gets shot in the leg with a crossbow and won’t leave the trenches until she’s literally, physically dragged away, which, again _,_ is _so_ my friend Kara that I’m going to have a stroke. I’m just gonna…”

Lena stopped narrating to pull out her phone, dialing. 

“Hey, Kara. Yeah, no, ‘m fine. ‘m doin’ Drunk History! Don’ get shot in the leg, okay? No, I know, but promise—” She beamed, pressed her hand to her mouth to cover it. “Okay. Love you!”

And then she hung up, pinker than even all her drinking could excuse.

“So, back to Joan. She gets shot, and Charles is like, ‘shit, this is my fault, retreat!’ And then, over the next six months, she cleans up after Spiders Georg’s mess, and then, four days after Christmas, the King is like, ‘you and your family are gonna be royalty now, conga-conflagra-congratulations!’ And Joan is like, ‘toight,’ and he’s like, ‘I know.’

“But then there’s a real truce, because she kicked the British’s asses, and so she’s bored as fuck with nothing to do, so she decides she’s gonna fight some Hussites, which, honey—” Lena hiccuped. “—honey, I know you wanna fight, but, like… just chill a li’l bit? Jus’ a li’l?

“Anyways, the Hussites are like, ‘dude, we don’t read French,’ and she’s like, ‘me neither,’ and nothing happens with that, but she doesn’t care, because…” Lena grinned, attempting drunken jazz hands as she sang, “The British are back on their bullshit!”

…

“So, May of 1430, the British aren’t fuckin’ around. Joan and her squad get kidnapped. She’s like, ‘fuck all y’all straight to hell, _brûle en l’enfer, salopes_!’ and she tries to escape, like, a shit-ton of times. This _one_ time, she jumps out of a seventy foot tower into an empty moat.” Lena sighed, running her fingers through her hair, looking more than a little misty-eyed. “Fucking _badass._  

“So they move her, but then her army buddies are like, ‘fuck you, assface, we’re getting our girl back!’ and they’re super useless without her, so it doesn’t work, but it’s the thought that counts, right? So, the British are like, ‘she’s a pain in the ass to keep locked up, but we want to fuck the French up, so let’s put her on trial, embarrass the sack off ‘em, and kill her. Which,” she blinked, “rude.”

…

“The trial of Joan of Arc was honestly the biggest fucking pile of bullshit. It was full of these theological, deontological, philosophical traps that should have tripped her up, because my baby was—”

Overcome with laughter, Lena fell, cackling, to the floor. “She was like, ‘hi, my name’s Joan, I’m nineteen, and I never fuckin’ learned how to read!’”

…

“So, the court asks Joan this big trick question,” said Lena, eyes wide, “‘do you know God’s grace?’ Which is a trap, because if she says yes, she’s a heretic, because supposedly no mortal can know God’s grace, but if she says no, she’s admitting guilt. And Joan, the fucking badass, is like, ‘Asked if she knew she was in God's grace, she answered, 'If I am not, may God put me there; and if I am, may God so keep me.’ 

“And the whole courtroom goes _wild._

“That, alone, should have gotten her off, but here’s the thing. Because it’s religious crimes, she should be in a nunnery, under the watch of nuns, but she got thrown in a regular prison, with a bunch of dudes in the cells and as the guards, which was supercalifragilisticexpiali-fucked up. And _that’s_ what gets the charge thrown out.

“But here’s the thing. For safety, in prison, Joan stayed dressed in _boy clothes,_ and even though she had royal permission during the war, she didn’t have it after, so she got brought _back_ before a judge to be tried for cross-dressing. And then the guards stole her clothes, left her with a dress, and an English noble comes in to take advantage.” Lena cracked her knuckles almost absently. “She tells the court, the dress gets taken into evidence even though she fought him off, and they give her no other clothes to wear, so she gets some trousers smuggled in, but then that gets her in legal trouble, except there’s this guy, St. Thomas of Aquinas, who says it’s okay to cross dress if you’re trying not to get raped, so she should have gotten off for it.

“She should have gotten off.”

…

Lena had bundled herself up in a throw blanket and was curled up on the floor. “Totally unfair. _Totally_ unfair. She should have gotten off, by the laws of the time! She wasn’t even twenty years old, and they burned her at the stake. Her last wishes were to have crosses held before her by the clergy while she burned, and one English soldier was so moved, he made a crucifix for her to wear around her neck on the pyre.

“They had to burn her body three times. The first, just to kill her, and then they showed off her burnt body so no one could say she was still living.” Lena scrubbed at her face with her palms and kept talking. “And then they burned her two more times, so no one could take any piece of her dress or her crucifix as a relic, and then they threw her in the Seine, which flows _away_ from her home. It was cruel!”

She stood and started to pace, still draped in blankets.

“It was so cruel, and such bullshit, that her mother fought for _decades_ to have her daughter’s crimes forgiven posthumously in a retrial that started in 1452 and lasted for four fucking years, and that her trial transcripts were used to have her canonized in 1920. Four hundred and ninety years for her to be appreciated!”

With what should have been a dramatic gesture, Lena threw the blanket off, only it was still kind of wrapped around her arms and it took a moment to thoroughly dislodge it. 

“And what’s really stupid,” she said viciously, “what’s _really fucking dumb,_ is the guy who lit her on fire said he ‘greatly feared he would be damned.’ Like, no shit, buddy! You burned a teenager alive for wanting to protect her home and her family and do the right thing! I hope you die scared about it, and I hope you do burn in hell!

“And then the King, her friend, was so pissed he swore vengeance on ‘all British men and women,’ but, like, maybe you should have protected her better while she was still alive? Y’ever thought about that? _Fuck!”_

…

Lena was back in the chair, head lolling over the backrest so all that was visible was the underside of her chin, which bobbed when she spoke.

“Joan of Arc was declared innocent on July 7th of 1456. She spent fifteen years after her death being viciously vilified, and even now, people use her as a symbol for some hardcore bullshit she would definitely have fought them over, but her people, her family, her friends, her brothers in arms, the women and clergymen who protected and sponsored and supported her along the way, they never stopped loving and honoring her, and I really, really hope she got to, like, ride on dragons and bone down with hot saints in the afterlife, because she deserved way better than what she got.”

With a sniffle, she reached back and wiped her eyes. 

“I’m, like, really drunk right now,” she sighed. “Like, so drunk. Booty call Supergirl drunk. I’ve never done that before, but I feel like I should, y’know?”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've actually had beta read! And it was genuinely so, so dumb! But this was really fun to write and I super enjoyed myself, and [lilspacecadet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilspacecadet/pseuds/lilspacecadet) laughed a lot reading it, so I hope you will, too!
> 
>  
> 
> ~~As for the sequel to Under The Same Sun, it's mostly planned out and partially written up, so fret not~~
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
